Squ. _Rich._ Here, Feyther, I ha' browght it----it's well I went as I did; for our _Doll_ had just bak'd a toast, and was going to drink it herself. Sir _Fran._ Why then, here's to thee, _Dick_! [_Drinks._ Squ. _Rich._ Thonk yow, Feyther. Lady _Wrong._ Lord! Sir _Francis_! I wonder you can encourage the Boy to swill so much of that lubberly liquor----it's enough to make him quite stupid. Squ. _Rich._ Why it never hurts me, Mother; and I sleep like a hawnd after it. [_Drinks._ Sir _Fran._ I am sure I ha' drunk it these thirty years, and by your leave, Madam, I don't know that I want wit: Ha! ha! _Jenny._ But you might have had a great deal more, Papa, if you would have been govern'd by my Mother. Sir _Fran._ Daughter! he that is governed by his Wife, has no wit at all. _Jenny._ Then I hope I shall marry a fool, Sir; for I love to govern dearly. Sir _Fran._ You are too pert, child; it don't do well in a young woman. Lady _Wrong._ Pray, Sir _Francis_, don't snub her; she has a fine growing spirit, and if you check her so, you will make her as dull as her brother there. Squ. _Rich._ [_After a long draught._] Indeed, Mother, I think my sister is too forward! _Jenny._ You! you think I'm too forward! sure! Brother Mud! your head's too heavy to think of any thing but your Belly. Lady _Wrong._ Well said, Miss; he's none of your Master, tho' he is your elder Brother. Squ. _Rich._ No, nor she shawn't be my Mistress, while she's younger sister! Sir _Fran._ Well said _Dick_! Shew 'em that stawt liquor makes a stawt heart, Lad! Squ. _Rich._ So I wull! and I'll drink ageen, for all her! [_Drinks._ _Enter ~John Moody~._ Sir _Fran._ So _John_! how are the horses! _John Moody._ Troth, Sir, I ha' noa good opinion o' this tawn, it's made up o' mischief, I think! Sir _Fran._ What's the matter naw? _John Moody._ Why I'll tell your Worship----before we were gotten to th' street end, with the coach, here, a great lugger-headed cart, with wheels as thick as a brick wall, laid hawld on't, and has poo'd it aw to bits; crack! went the perch! Down goes the coach! and whang! says the glasses, all to shivers! Marcy upon us! and this be _London_! would we were aw weell in the country ageen! _Jenny._ What have you to do, to wish us all in the country again, Mr. Lubber? I hope we shall not go into the country again these seven years, Mamma; let twenty coaches be pull'd to pieces. Sir _Fran._ Hold your tongue, _Jenny_!----Was _Roger_ in no fault, in all this?